


god only knows (what I'd be without you)

by appleeater



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:26:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleeater/pseuds/appleeater
Summary: It’s a recent thing, Feuilly and Eponine being friends. Not everyone’s caught on yet.
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	god only knows (what I'd be without you)

It's the first meeting back after the New Year and even Enjolras has stopped trying to impose order, talking to Jehan about something, hands waving about as he makes a point. Grantaire is playing a card game with Joly and Bossuet, occasionally casting glances at Enjolras. Courfeyrac is hanging off of Combeferre’s arm, chattering away. Bahorel is standing over Grantaire, making faces at his cards. Cosette and Marius are dancing together even though there’s no music playing. Cosette looks up at Eponine and smiles, her hand lifting off Marius’ waist, maybe in welcome, maybe to wave. 

Eponine escapes the Musain, muttering something about fresh air to whomever might be standing close enough to hear. There’s already someone standing outside, smoking. 

Feuilly looks at her and wordlessly holds out a pack of cigarettes.

“I was trying to quit,” Eponine grumbles, but it’s a token protest.

“Me too,” Feuilly says, “but Bahorel’s decided to start sexually experimenting.”

Eponine pauses in the middle of pulling out a cigarette to regard Feuilly with disbelief. 

He takes a long drag, exhales pointedly. 

She huffs and lights her cigarette before saying, “Well. Who’s the lucky man?” 

“Courf’s taking him to a gay club.” 

Of course. Courfeyrac would do it, too. He lives for moments like this. 

“Well, shit,” she says. “He took the breakup hard.”

“Yeah,” Feuilly says. 

He doesn’t need to say much to get his point across. It’s a nice change of pace from the other Amis, who all seem to think that they need to express their every thought. She finds it endearing up to a point, the point usually being Grantaire, but this is nice, too; Feuilly’s loaded silences. 

“Cosette wants me to move in with her and Marius,” she offers. 

Feuilly’s eyebrows, never visible at the best of times, vanish into his hairline. 

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“We’re pathetic,” Eponine says. 

“And Enjolras is going to lecture us both about the dangers of smoking again,” Feuilly says, with the beginnings of a smile.

“And Joly will look sad. R will laugh.”

“Hm. Might as well have another, then.”

“Might as well.”

\--

Eponine has no intention of moving in with Cosette and Marius. Even if she weren’t stupidly in love with both of them, she still wouldn’t do it. The offer smacks of pity. The place is too nice, the windows too big, the appliances too new. She’d look out of place in so respectable a neighborhood.

Marius had been disappointed, almost hurt, when she had turned them down a month ago. Cosette, though—Eponine was going to have to be careful with Cosette. She’s taken to laying traps to remind Eponine of what she’s missing. Case in point, when Eponine goes to meet Cosette at the darkroom on campus. 

“I thought you said we were going to eat,” Eponine says, eyes narrowed.

“We will,” Cosette says, eyes wide with innocence. “I just need some help carrying these prints. It’s a short walk. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.” 

One of the selling points of the apartment: it’s proximity to campus. 

“Fine,” Eponine says. 

Cosette’s prints are part of a larger personal project she’s working on, “very hush hush,” but Eponine’s pretty sure it has something to do with the Amis. The photos are in folders, though, and when she tries to sneak a peek, Cosette swats her hand away with impressive speed. 

“You would have made an excellent thief,” Eponine tells her. 

“There’s still time,” Cosette says cheerfully. “Two blocks to the left.”

“I remember,” Eponine says with a sigh. 

The apartment’s a bit more lived in than when Marius and Cosette moved in a few months ago. Some of Cosette’s photographs hang on the walls, Marius’ books are spread around on just about every available surface, their cat, Ursula, is lying on the sofa, looking warily at Eponine.

Eponine approaches the cat while Cosette is putting away the prints in her room. Ursula, like always, pretends not to know her but Eponine remembers the spot underneath her chin that sets her purring right away.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Eponine looks behind her, sees Cosette looking at Ursula fondly. “She scratched poor Courfeyrac again, just yesterday.”

“He’s more of a dog person,” Eponine says. She’s not the world’s biggest fan of Courfeyrac. He’s careless, sometimes, with people and with cats.

“Let’s order takeout,” Cosette suggests, as though the idea has just occurred to her. “I’m in the mood for Thai. How about you?”

Eponine glares at her. Cosette smiles back, blandly. Eponine sits. Cosette’s smile curls mischievously at the edges. 

“I’ll go get the menu,” she says.

\--

Feuilly is a good and supportive friend. He has asked Eponine to remind him of this at hourly intervals. Because she’s Eponine, she texts him whenever she feels like and it’s exponentially more effective. 

For instance when Bahorel starts telling him about Courfeyrac’s advice for the best ways to hit on a guy, he’s midway through snapping out a response when his phone buzzes. 

_You are a good friend, dumbass_. It’s not creative but it gets the job done.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Feuilly says, looking up at Bahorel, who doesn’t look in the least bit hurt but does look like he’s ready to fight. “Go on, keep telling me about Courf’s plans to play mad scientist with your personal life.”

“You have a problem with this.” It’s not a question.

“Well, hearing about you and Courf and your ridiculous seduction plans is not exactly how I want to spend my evening off.” 

“Not that. I mean me wanting dudes.”

It’s like a kick to the solar plexus and it has been every time. Feuilly’s grateful that he can turn his back to Bahorel and start doing dishes without it being suspicious. Bahorel’s always bothering him about doing the dishes. 

“Don’t you think you would have noticed that you were living with a raging homophobe at some point over the last two years?” Feuilly asks, keeping the sarcasm heavy.

“I didn’t say dudes wanting dudes. I said me wanting dudes.”

“Why would that bother me?”

Feuilly hates that he asked that question. A dumbass move, for sure. There’s only a few possible answers to that question and really only one that makes sense. He’s been careful, sure, but Bahorel isn’t an idiot, for all he acts like it sometimes. 

“I don’t know, man. I mean, I’ve seen you naked.”

Feuilly whips his head around around in surprise. He laughs at Bahorel’s face, which is just a little red. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Fuck off,” Bahorel says, blushing in the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“You fucking live to make me uncomfortable,” Feuilly points out. 

“Not like that,” Bahorel says, insistently, carelessly brushing away years of pranks that were designed to torment Feuilly. 

“Okay, dude,” Feuilly turns to fully face Bahorel, drying his hands on his shirt. _This_ is a conversation he can handle. “You’ve seen me naked, what, twice? And one of those times you were naked, too, and so were most of our friends because Cosette’s a poker goddess. And the other time was because you still hadn’t learned to fucking knock when we were dorming together. Unless, you’re telling me that was just to get a glimpse of all this?”

Feuilly displays his flannel wearing, tired, too skinny body with a flourish of his hand. 

“Yeah, you wish,” 

Fuck but he does. 

“Get over yourself,” Feuilly says, rolling his eyes, turning back to the sink. “I don’t care, gay, straight, bi, whatever, it’s good. We’re cool.” 

“Cool,” Bahorel says. It doesn’t sound like he means it. 

\--

“I need a fucking drink,” 

“Being a good friend,” Feuilly says, “I will come and get one with you. But isn’t that kind of Grantaire’s job?”

“He’ll be there,” Eponine says, “but there’s only so much rhapsodizing over Enjolras’ ass that I can take.”

“You’d rather listen to me complain about Bahorel?”

“You make fewer classical references.”

“Hard to argue with that.”

Grantaire seems surprised to see Feuilly. It’s a recent thing, Feuilly and Eponine being friends. Not everyone’s caught on yet. 

“My dear Feuilly,” he says, blinking at him. “It’s good to see you.”

It’s obvious that he’s being sincere, even through his surprise, so Feuilly smiles at him. He doesn’t know Grantaire all that well. He’s only sometimes at meetings, and spends half his time there in contemplative silence and the other half of the time baiting Enjolras like a twelve year-old with a crush. He’s friends with Joly and Bossuet and Eponine. Otherwise, he keeps apart from the rest of the Amis. 

“You’re such a weirdo,” Eponine tells Grantaire. “You can just say hi, like a normal person.”

“Hi,” Feuilly tells her, pointedly. 

She grins. “Hi. Sit down. We got a pitcher.”

The beer’s shit but it’s cold and, contrary to what Eponine had said, Grantaire doesn’t so much as mention Enjolras for the first hour they’re there. They talk about books and the last disastrous Amis outing and Grantaire’s cut eyebrow, which they agree gives him a sort of rakish air. It’s nice, and Feuilly’s managing to enjoy the hell out of himself when his phone buzzes. 

For a second, he expects to see one of Eponine’s good friend texts, but then he remembers that he’s with her. It’s Bahorel, instead. _Where are you? Courf and I are going out. We’ll swing by and grab you_

Another text buzzes. It’s from Courf. _Unless ur busy being a responsible boy, in which case we love and respect u!!!_

Bahorel again. _I know you’re free_

He looks up and Grantaire is studying his face. Eponine is pointedly not looking at him. 

“Bahorel,” he says, taking a drink. “And Courf.” He puts his phone in his pocket without replying. 

“An alarming combination,” Grantaire says, eyes sharper than Feuilly would have expected. “I’ve heard about their convoluted plans for sexual experimentation. I don’t understand why it has to be such a process.”

“Not all of us were born out of the closet,” Eponine says to Grantaire, testily.

“Sure, sure,” Grantaire says, waving a hand in the air. “I mean, I was. You were. I’m pretty sure Courf was born whatever hell way he is. Still, you’re right. It takes some people a little longer to figure out who they are.”

His eyes rest on Feuilly. It’s an invitation, not a demand. 

Feuilly thinks of the texts on his phone and lifts his drink, a small salute. “It does.”

It’s not an admission but it’s the closest he’s ever gotten with one of the Amis. It feels good. Eponine nudges her shoulder and then dramatically whispers, “He still hasn’t figured out what E’s deal is. I don’t suppose you have any inside information?”

“Fuck you, Ponine,” Grantaire says, but he still looks curious.

“There’s a betting pool,” Feuilly admits. 

“And whom should I contact if I wished to participate in said betting pool?”

“Isn’t that emotional masochism or something?”

“Now you’re getting it,” Grantaire says. The cut eyebrow really does suit him.

Grantaire wanders away after a time, apparently to meet with Joly, Bossuet, and their girlfriend, whom Feuilly hasn’t met yet. 

“A lovely woman,” Grantaire assures him, kissing Eponine’s cheek and then, after a moment of consideration, Feuilly’s too. “Don’t have too much fun without me, kiddos.”

Feuilly watches Grantaire swan away. He may be swaying because he’s drunk but he’s a little too in rhythm for that. It’s as though he’s listening to a song in his head.

“He’s—”

Eponine’s eyebrows are a challenge.

“A lot.”

She scowls.

“I like him,” Feuilly clarifies. “I think he and Bahorel would get along.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about Bahorel tonight.” 

“I never said that.”

“You never answered his text, either.”

Texts, plural. He’d texted twice more. _I’ll buy your drinks if thats the problem_. Then, _fine be an asshole_.

“Well, do you want to talk about Marius and Cosette?” he asks, challengingly. 

“Yes, actually, I do,” Eponine says, fierce. She’s embarrassed, Feuilly realizes. 

He smiles. “Well then, let’s talk about Marius and Cosette.” 

“I want to move in with them,” she says, in a rush, “and I need you to tell me what a fucking stupid idea that would be.”

“I could send you hourly texts,” he suggests. 

“Ass.”

“Seriously, would it be that bad?”

“That is not your role in this conversation.” She’s still red around the ears. 

“I live with Bahorel.”

“And that clearly makes you so happy,” she snaps. She looks immediately guilty but Feuilly’s not offended. 

“It does, actually,” he says. 

Bahorel will go to the gay bar and it might be a success but, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter to Feuilly. He’s going to end up with someone bright and gorgeous, like his ex-girlfriend. Someone who laughs more than they argue and who will probably have great legs. Feuilly is lucky to have him until then. He’s lucky to hear Bahorel sing show tunes in the shower, to have Bahorel’s hair clips all over the place, to share a refrigerator. 

“At least you know that they’re staying exactly where they are. They have each other and they still want you.” 

Eponine’s eyes have gone soft and, with the lingering blush, she looks young. He feels weirdly protective of her, like she’s the sister he’s never had. 

“I don’t want to be more fucking miserable than I already am.”

“So let them try to make you happy,” he suggests. “And if they can’t, you can leave.”

“And if I do, you’d come with me, right?” As though they had talked about it a thousand times before. 

“Anywhere you want,” Feuilly says. 

\--

Eponine announces that she’s moving in with a text because she doesn’t want Cosette to see her face. Cosette sends back a string of purple hearts. Marius a simple, _Yay!_. 

Cosette calls as soon as she’s on her lunch break. “When do you want to start moving stuff? I know your lease isn’t up for another month but we can at least start boxing up the non-essentials.”

“We can start this weekend,” Eponine says, firmly. It’s much easier to be firm with Cosette when she’s not looking at her stupid, beautiful face. “Not a day sooner.”

“We’re throwing a party the day you move in,” Cosette says, and it’s clear that negotiations have begun. 

“A small one.”

“Courf will decorate.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Cosette says, laughing. “But you will let us celebrate?”

“Whatever,” Eponine says. “As long as it’s not a school night so Gav can come for a bit.”

“Of course,” Cosette says warmly. “Oh, Ponine, I’m so glad you’re finally moving in. We’ve left the spare room completely empty, you know.” 

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” Eponine says, dryly. 

“Come for dinner tonight. Marius is making some fancy fish thing. I didn’t quite catch the details but there was overnight preparation involved so it’s bound to be good.”

Eponine is going to have to get used to things that are far more trying than dinner. She might as well start as she means to go on.

“I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

Cosette hugs her when she opens the door, as though it’s been years since they’ve seen each other instead of just a couple of days. She takes the bottle of wine from Eponine and puts it on a side table before unwinding Eponine’s scarf. 

“I can do that myself,” Eponine says, embarrassed by the tender care that Cosette shows as she unloops the scarf, once, twice, without disturbing Eponine’s hair. 

“I know,” Cosette says, hanging the scarf up. “Which is why I’ll let you unbutton your own jacket.”

“Thanks,” Eponine says, dryly. 

Marius pokes his head out of the kitchen. His cheeks are flushed and there’s an apron around his neck. His smile is just as warm as Cosette’s. “I’m nearly finished,” he says. “Have a seat.”

The apartment smells of garlic and lemon, so completely different from her current place, which had been occupied by a lifelong smoker, the scent settling into the walls. Besides, Eponine never cooks. 

Cosette uncorks the wine. “It’s cold enough outside to have chilled it,” she says cheerfully. “I hope your walk wasn’t too bad.”

“It was fine,” Eponine says, accepting a very full glass of wine. “I actually walked over from Feuilly’s place.”

She had, embarrassingly, needed a bit of a pep talk and Feuilly had wanted a buffer. Apparently Bahorel was no longer speaking to him. 

“But it’s not speaking to me in a way that means a serious conversation in the near future,” Feuilly had hissed, a careful eye towards Bahorel’s room. 

“You and Feuilly seem to have gotten quite close in the last few weeks,” Cosette says, taking a sip of wine. 

“So?”

“It’s nice,” Cosette says. She doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s nice at all. 

Eponine narrows her eyes. “You like Feuilly,” she reminds Cosette.

“Of course, we do,” Marius says, emerging from the kitchen, a steaming dish in hand. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Let me help with that,” Eponine says, taking the dish, which is apparently asparagus.

Marius fetches the fish and Feuilly isn’t brought up again as Cosette and Eponine compliment Marius on his cooking. 

Eponine hadn’t had the kind of childhood where she sat down to a family dinner. It was alien to her that Marius and Cosette did almost every night, in addition to having weekly visits with Cosette’s father. Marius cooked every night, too, unless they went out. He’d probably end up some sort of house husband, maybe teaching a few classes on the side. They could afford it. Cosette’s father paid the rent on their apartment, or maybe he had purchased it outright. Cosette had been vague on the details when Eponine had pressed her on it. 

“You should come with us sometime,” Cosette says. “Papa would love to have you.”

“No, thanks though,” Eponine says, refusing to give Cosette an opening to persuade her. 

“You’ve met my family,” Marius points out. 

“I helped you move out of your bigoted grandfather’s place,” Eponine corrects him. 

“It counts,” he argues, but he’s smiling a little. He doesn’t say, I’ve met your family and, bless him, it wouldn’t occur to him to. 

“Papa wants to meet you,” Cosette says, stubbornly. 

“He’ll have to be disappointed,” Eponine says. “Pass me the wine.”

Cosette pointedly crosses her arms but Marius automatically obliges, causing Cosette to throw her hands in the air in exasperation. Eponine calmly pours herself a second glass.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Cosette says, eyes narrowed. 

“I’ve met him,” Eponine reminds Cosette. “Several times even. I just don’t want to go to family dinner.”

“But you are family!” Cosette protests. 

Marius, who is a little terrified of his girlfriend’s father, looks torn between assuring Eponine that she’s family and between helping her escape from the dinners. 

“Maybe another time?” Marius suggests to Cosette, a compromise. 

“I’ll wear you down,” Cosette tells Eponine, not giving an inch. 

Eponine knows she spoils Cosette by always doing exactly what she wants but everyone else does it too, so it’s difficult to feel responsible. Still, she’s going to stick with her guns on this one. Valjean had known her father. She doesn’t like to spend time around people who had known her father. 

“We’ll see,” Eponine says, and changes the subject. 

\--

Bahorel emerges from his room only after Eponine has left for Cosette and Marius’ place. 

“Eponine’s been around a lot.”

Feuilly refrains from asking if Bahorel’s speaking to him now, but just barely. “Yeah. We’ve been hanging out more.”

“Hmph.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“You could have just said last night that you were with her.”

“I know,” Feuilly says. “But she wouldn’t have wanted to go to the club any more than I would. Besides, we got caught up talking about stuff. I forgot to respond.”

Bahorel doesn’t look like he believes him. He also looks tired. Feuilly hadn’t been awake when he had come in last night. It had to have been after three. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”

“Your magical evening at the gay club?”

Bahorel sits on the couch, a full cushion between him and Feuilly. They don’t cuddle but they don’t usually keep a full foot of distance between them either. 

“My sexual experimentation,” Bahorel reminds him. 

“Yeah, that,” Feuilly says, reaching for the TV remote, desperate for a distraction. “Whatever. How was it?”

Bahorel pries the TV remote out of his hand and flings it away. Feuilly hears the batteries go rolling. 

“Hey, watch it,” Feuilly snaps. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation here, asshole.”

“Alright, alright. Converse away. You don’t have to fucking destroy our property.”

“Apparently I do,” Bahorel says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like an overgrown toddler. “I had fun last night.”

“Oh wow, this is what needed my full attention. Congrats! You had fun. That’s never happened before.”

“No, asshole, I had _fun_.”

Feuilly is going to point out that the emphasis didn’t change the sentence any when he finally looks directly at Bahorel. He looks—not scared or anything—but uncertain. Feuilly knows that face, though he never really expected to see Bahorel wearing it. 

“Hold on a second,” he says, standing up.

“You can’t just walk away,” Bahorel shouts indignantly.

“I’ll be right back, you gigantic infant.”

He returns from his room with a sticker in hand. Without pausing, he peels the back off and sticks it to Bahorel’s forehead. 

“What the fuck?”

Bahorel immediately pulls it off and looks at it. It’s a rainbow flag, left over from last year’s pride march. Courfeyrac had been handing them out like candy. Feuilly hadn’t thrown them all away. You never knew. 

“There,” he tells Bahorel. “It’s official. You’re now a big gay idiot.” 

Bahorel looks at the sticker again, clears his throat. “I don’t know if it’s that official.”

“Whatever, you’re still a big idiot,” Feuilly says. “Do I even want to know what phase two of Courfeyrac’s plan is?”

“He suggested we make out.”

For a heart-stopping moment Feuilly thinks that he means Feuilly and Bahorel but, no, Bahorel’s shoulders are too relaxed with laughter for that. 

“Courf takes it personally that not everyone in the Amis has made out with him,” Feuilly says shaking his head.

“You haven’t either,” Bahorel points out.

That isn’t strictly speaking true and it must show on his face. “No fucking way! When?”

“New Year’s,” Feuilly admits reluctantly. “A couple of years ago.”

“That doesn’t count.”

It hadn’t exactly been just the one New Year’s kiss but Feuilly doesn’t see any need to tell Bahorel that. 

“Whatever. He counts it. So you and Eponine are the only holdouts and I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try anything with Eponine.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” 

“Stupid enough to try anything with Eponine?”

Sometimes Feuilly forgets he’s not out. Sometimes, he’s sure that everyone else can see right through him. And then people ask dumbass questions that remind him that he’s still firmly in the closet. 

“No,” he says, rubbing his face. “Just no. Where would you get that idea?”

Bahorel looks defensive. “You’ve been spending a fuckton of time together. Courf says you took her younger brother to the park. Hardly anyone has even met him, Feuilly. That means something.”

“Yeah, dumbass, it means we’re friends. We got talking after a meeting one time and realized we have some shit in common, that’s all. She’s awesome. You’d like her if you tried talking to her instead of hiding in your room like a fucking weirdo.”

“You’d tell me, right? If you and her were something?”

“Yeah, I’d tell you,” Feuilly says, rolling his eyes. “But it’s not going to happen, dude.”

“I tell you everything, you know,” Bahorel continues. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes I wish you wouldn’t.”

Feuilly had meant it in a teasing way. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so tired. 

“Cool,” Bahorel says, coldly. “Good to know.”

“Rel—”

But Bahorel’s already halfway out the door. 

\--

Eponine is surprised when Marius, not Cosette, comes to help her move her stuff. 

“Reporting for duty,” Marius says, saluting, when she opens the door. The tip of his nose is red with the cold. 

“Dork,” she tells him. “Come in, there’s plenty of boxes to go around.”

They load up the car with everything Eponine doesn’t need for the next week. It’s not much. She’s never managed to become the kind of person who keeps things around. She’s ready to pick up and move at a moment’s notice, even though she hasn’t had to in years. 

“Homeward bound,” Marius says, hopping in the driver’s seat.

He’s driving Cosette’s car, which he always does with a hilarious look of concentration, completely determined not to so much as scratch the paint. Cosette, meanwhile, drives like a demon. 

“It’s not my home yet,” Eponine reminds him, reaching for the radio. 

“But soon,” Marius says, cheerfully. 

He switches the station from the pop she’d chosen to classical, without looking. She debates switching it back, but Marius is one of the few people who knows about her appreciation for classical music, so she doesn’t have to put up a front around him. 

“How long did it take Cosette to convince you to let me move in?”

Marius looks confused. “It was my idea.”

“Oh,” Eponine says. She can’t say more because she can’t entirely trust her voice. She is afraid that she will always be, somewhere deep down, the fifteen-year-old girl she was when she and Marius first met, brittle, frightened, and hopelessly in love with the first nice boy she’d ever met. 

“I hate your place,” he continues. “I’m glad you’re getting out of there. Besides, we haven’t seen you around all that much this semester. We’ve missed you.”

“You’ve been busy,” she says. Moving in, making a home, being together.

“Not too busy for you,” he says, sternly. 

She giggles, a sound she never makes around anyone else. Goddamn Marius Pontmercy. Still, he’s smiling, wide and happy, so she supposes it’s all right.

Cosette isn’t at the apartment when they get there. “New assignment,” Marius explains. “She’s probably going to be working all weekend.”

Cosette’s working part-time as a photojournalist at the local paper. It’s not a glamorous position but she has talent, or so Grantaire has always said, so she probably won’t be there for long after graduation.

“Sucks,” Eponine says, doing her best not to trip over Ursula, winding her way through Eponine’s legs. “Where should I put the boxes?”

“In your new room, of course,” Marius says, excitedly bouncing ahead to show her the way. 

They’ve painted it, a golden yellow that Eponine would have never chosen for herself but which she loves. There are small plants on the windowsill, in spite of the weather. 

“We can get rid of them if you want,” Marius says, as she pokes them with her finger. “But I thought they were cute.”

“They are,” Eponine admits. “But I’m not naming them or anything.”

“Why would anyone name plants?” Marius says, nose wrinkling up in confusion. 

“Come on,” Eponine says, unable to stop her smile, grabbing his arm. “Let’s get the rest of the boxes.”

When they’ve finished, Eponine turns to leave the room. “Aren’t you going to unpack?” Marius says, looking worried. 

“I will when I actually move in,” Eponine says, rolling her eyes at his distress. 

Marius pouts. “You’ll stick around for a bit, though? We can watch a movie or something. I don’t know when Cosette’s getting back.”

He looks so pathetic that Eponine can’t help but give in. They put in Lord of the Rings because Marius loves the movies, had even done a couple of papers on elven linguistics. Eponine likes them just fine but likes the way Marius lights up even more. 

They’ve just about finished the first one when Cosette returns. She looks tired but she smiles at the two of them. “My favorite people,” she says, kissing Marius and then kissing the top of Eponine’s head. “I’ll make popcorn and we can start Two Towers?” 

Eponine is fairly certain her fucking heart is going to give out before she even moves in.

Cosette makes popcorn and inserts herself between Eponine and Marius, leaning back against him so that she can prop her feet in Eponine’s lap. She’s wearing socks with cartoon squirrels on them. Eponine eyes them with distaste. Cosette laughs at her expression and nudges her side with her toes. “Don’t hate.”

“They’re cute,” Marius says loyally. 

“Because I’m not dating you, I can tell you the truth,” Eponine says, very seriously. “They’re hideous.”

“They were all I had clean,” Cosette says, unoffended. She gets distracted by the events on screen before Eponine can make fun of her anymore. 

Eponine likes watching movies with the two of them. They get so absorbed, laughing, and crying, and gasping even if they’ve seen the movie a hundred times before. It’s the only time Eponine can watch them the way she wants to without the risk of being caught staring. 

She leaves before they can suck her into Return of the King but only because she has the excuse of getting dinner with Musichetta. They both give her a hug at the door, and they’re long, warm ones. It feels terribly cold when she finally leaves the apartment. 

\--

After a few days of Bahorel avoiding him, Feuilly tracks him down at the Corinthe. He’s there with the golden trio, which surprises Feuilly. He had known that Bahorel had been spending time with Courfeyrac but he hadn’t expected to see Enjolras and Combeferre as well.

“Feuilly,” Combeferre says, calmly, as though his calmness will distract Feuilly from the extremely shifty glances flying between the other three. 

They were talking about him, he’s completely sure of it. 

“Hey,” he says, ignoring the twist in his gut. “Can I sit?”

“Please do,” Enjolras says. Bahorel doesn’t look at him. Feuilly takes the only available seat between Courfeyrac and Enjolras. 

“What brings you to the Corinthe?” Courfeyrac says, as though the Amis don’t float in and out of the bar all the time. 

“I’m meeting Grantaire.” Feuilly is glad that he had texted Grantaire and asked him to show up when he could in case things went south with Bahorel. 

This elicits genuine surprise from everyone at the table. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, eyebrows slamming together with consternation. 

“Of course,” Bahorel says, leaning back in his chair, boots on the table, which Feuilly would have snapped at him about at any other time. “He’s Eponine’s best friend.”

“I think Cosette would take exception to that,” Feuilly says, ordering a beer from a passing waitress. “Maybe Marius, too.”

“He’s mine,” Courf says instantly. “She can take second place.”

“Third,” Combeferre says, gently. “Cosette, you know.”

“Hmph,” Courfeyrac says, pouting. “Eponine is a total roommate thief. I hear she’s moving in with them?”

He looks to Feuilly for confirmation. Feuilly nods. 

“Next week. There’s going to be a party.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” Bahorel says, as though he hasn’t actively been avoiding speaking to Feuilly. 

“She didn’t want a fuss,” Feuilly says, accepting his beer, grateful to have something to do with his hands.

“But why Grantaire?” Enjolras wants to know. “You don’t like him, do you, Feuilly? He’s—he’s, well—” He makes an exasperated hand gesture that encompasses all of Grantaire’s faults. 

Feuilly laughs. “Yeah, he is, a bit. He’s also really well-read. We had a good conversation last time I was out with him.”

“When was this?” Bahorel says, leaning forward, a storm cloud gathering on his brow. 

And thank god for Grantaire, because he chooses that moment to emerge through the doors of the Corinthe, dressed in only a hoodie despite the weather. His eyes are bloodshot and they go round with horror when he sees the company Feuilly’s keeping. 

Feuilly holds up his drink in apology. Grantaire squares his shoulders and makes an expression that clearly conveys that Feuilly will certainly owe him more than one drink for this. 

“Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Enj, Feuilly,” at the last he kisses Feuilly’s cheek, like he had the last time they’d met. He sits down next to him, too, squeezing a chair next to Courfeyrac. “What skullduggery are you gentlemen up to?”

Courfeyrac regards Grantaire with delighted surprise. “Darling R, you so seldom descend into our midst. What brought you to the Corinthe tonight?”

“There are other places to drink in this wide, wide world,” Grantaire says, slinging an arm over the back of Feuilly’s chair. “But I came to the humble Corinthe because Feuilly asked it of me.”

“What are you drinking?” Feuilly asks, expressing his gratitude the only way he is sure will be appreciated. 

“Whatever is provided,” Grantaire says. And then he smiles. “I would be most appreciative if wine were to be provided.”

Feuilly orders a bottle for Grantaire—he feels he’s earned it—and another beer for himself. 

“How is the project coming along?” Feuilly asks Grantaire, because Grantaire had agreed to come out because his current video project was apparently turning into a nightmare—“And not the good artistic kind. The boring suburban kind.” 

“It is,” Grantaire says, gravely, “driving me mad. I think I may become a banker, after all. It’s a little late to win my father’s approval but not too late to preserve what is left of my sanity.”

“What are you working on?” Combeferre asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

Grantaire looks uncomfortable but he starts to explain his project. As he starts, Bahorel gets up and walks to the bar. With a cautious glance at Grantaire, one that is met with an airy wave, Feuilly follows. 

“You’ll like him,” Feuilly says, not really wanting to talk about Grantaire but not really knowing how to talk about anything else. 

“Making a lot of new friends, lately,” Bahorel says, rapping his knuckles on the bar. They’re bruised. He’s been going too hard at the gym, maybe. Hopefully. 

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the old ones,” Feuilly says. “I’m sorry, you know.”

“For what?”

Feuilly takes a sip of his beer. “Jesus. You want an itemized list?”

Bahorel turns to look at him. His jaw is set tight. “It wouldn’t hurt. You’ve been a total dickhead about this whole thing and you’re lying to me about why.”

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there,” Feuilly says, which isn’t fair, because Bahorel is right. Of course he’s right. No one knows Feuilly better. 

“Dude, you ran away to Eponine the second I brought up the possibility of liking dick,” Bahorel says. 

The bartender, having come over to take their order, raises his eyebrows. Bahorel notices him and shrugs. The bartender shrugs back and goes to get Bahorel a beer. 

“The two aren’t related,” Feuilly says. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been supportive. It just seemed like Courfeyrac had it well in hand. And I’ve been working through some shit. It’s not an excuse but that’s how it is.”

“Courf’s cool but you’re my best friend,” Bahorel says, jaw still so fucking tight. “I just—man, it would fucking suck if you thought differently about me because of this. It really would.”

“Dude,” Feuilly says, and he pulls Bahorel into a hug, because Bahorel may be a tough guy but he loves hugs. Besides, there’s nothing comforting Feuilly can say right now that won’t carry some lie in it. 

Bahorel tucks Feuilly’s head under his chin. “I fucking hate when we fight. You stop doing your dishes.”

“Oh I see how it is,” Feuilly says, not moving. “It’s always about the dishes.”

“Yeah,” Bahorel says, not moving either. “And the fact that it’s your week to buy groceries.” 

Feuilly snorts, pulls back. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises. “And I’ll let you tell me all about your conquests. But for now—”

Bahorel’s closer than Feuilly can really stand right now. “For now?” he repeats, with a small smile.

“We should go save Grantaire,” Feuilly says, stepping back to safety. “I think it’s kind of cruel to leave him with Enjolras without offering some kind of support.” 

Bahorel looks over to where Enjolras has clearly begun lecturing a half-adoring, half-angry Grantaire. He laughs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

\--

Marius and Cosette appear at her door the morning that Eponine is moving in. Cosette is holding coffee and Marius is holding a pastry bag containing something that smells delicious. 

“It is eight in the morning,” Eponine says, taking both of the offerings without saying thank you. It’s too early for gratitude, particularly since they’d woken her up with their enthusiastic knocking. 

“We have a lot to get accomplished,” Cosette says cheerfully, pushing past Eponine. “We figured we’d get an early start.”

Marius looks sympathetic. He’s not a morning person either. Eponine has received plenty of snaps from him looking despairing as Cosette drags him somewhere before ten. 

“I barely have any stuff left,” Eponine says, refusing to be embarrassed about it. “It’s not going to take all day.”

“Nope,” Cosette says. “We’re moving from eight to ten. Then we’re going shopping for your housewarming gift. Then lunch at your favorite Indian place. By then, it’ll be time to start getting ready for the party, since we have to do the decorating ourselves. I figure if we get ready fast enough, we’ll have time to fit in a movie.”

Eponine looks at her smile and feels exhausted already. She looks at Marius. He shrugs, helplessly. 

Eponine takes a long sip of coffee. “Fine,” she says. “But don’t expect me to enjoy myself.”

Marius makes a wounded noise but Cosette has no pity in her heart.

“You’ll do it,” Cosette says, “and you’ll like it.”

The moving goes smoothly and quickly with all three of them working to transfer the remainder of Eponine’s worldly goods. For the first time since she’d agreed to move in, it feels real to Eponine. She looks at her apartment, with it’s stained walls and crooked sockets, and she feels a sudden need to hole up there, to run away from the polished floors and gleaming countertops of her new home.

Cosette doesn’t let her brood long. “Shopping,” she announces, militantly, even though they’re a half an hour ahead of schedule. 

Cosette had insisted on buying Eponine a housewarming gift, as though the home itself wasn’t enough. However, she had graciously allowed that Eponine could help her choose it.

Eponine is particularly glad that she struck that bargain because she has to talk Cosette out of a bathrobe with cat ears, an ugly painting of a dandelion, and a boombox. 

“Where would we even put it?” Eponine says, pushing Cosette away. “Come on. I want to check out the rugs.”

“You’re boring,” Cosette pouts. 

Marius ends up finding the perfect rug to go with her new walls, a pale yellow ombre, soft and large. He holds it aloft with triumph. Even Cosette admits it’s nice, though she continues to call them both boring all the way through check-out and over lunch. 

Eponine’s favorite Indian place is a hole in the wall. They are forced to squeeze into a tiny table, limbs knocking into each other whenever they shift in their seat or reach across the table for naan. Cosette, as always, has ordered something that she’s never had before and this time the experiment isn’t a success, so she reaches across the table to shamelessly steal food from Eponine and Marius. 

“You should have known better,” Eponine says severely. “You hate spinach.”

“I always have,” Cosette says, serenely. “You never know, though. I might wake up one day and like it.”

Marius rolls his eyes at Eponine and then has to dodge a swat from Cosette, who had noticed. 

Eponine tries to pay for lunch but Cosette and Marius perform a joint distraction maneuver and settle the bill before she can get to it. 

“You can only use that trick once,” Eponine warns them. “I’ll know better next time.” 

“Oh, but we have lots of tricks,” Cosette says, winking. She looks ridiculous and even poor, besotted Mairus snorts in laughter. 

Party prep doesn’t include much besides buying a lot of alcohol and food. 

“Since you’ve forbidden decorations,” Marius says, sadly. “Can’t we have some balloons? Just a few?”

“No,” Eponine says, firmly. “Save it for your birthday.”

Marius is consoled only by the prospect of spending the rest of the day making his party snacks. Eponine isn’t sure where Marius learned to cook, given that she’s pretty sure he had a cook growing up, but he’s genuinely amazing.

“It’s a shame these won’t be appreciated by all our drunk ass friends,” Eponine says, perched on the counter, waiting for the best moment to steal a tiny spanakopita. 

“These are for before we get drunk,” Marius says, blowing some hair out of his face. “I’m making mini pizzas for later.”

“You spoil everyone,” Eponine says and goes in for the kill. The pastry is hot and flaky in her mouth. 

Marius doesn’t complain, just regards her seriously. “How is it?”

“You know it’s amazing,” she says. “Don’t even front, Pontmercy.” He also knows that she likes spinach. 

He smiles, shyly, and goes back to his work. “I’m glad you like them.”

Cosette comes in, wearing a pretty dress with sheer tights. There’s glitter in the weave. She looks like a fairy princess if fairy princesses went around with their hair in curlers. 

“Smells heavenly,” she says, but she doesn’t go up to the tray. Instead she hauls herself onto the counter next to Eponine. She smiles softly at the sight Marius, who is concentrating very hard on dicing some vegetables for his homemade salsa. The smile and the way Marius’ forehead crinkles and the way that Cosette’s leg is pushing up against hers on the counter is too much for a second. 

Eponine hops down. “I’m going to figure out what to wear.”

“Ooh, I want to help,” Cosette says, following her. 

“Not black,” Marius says, distractedly, as they walk away. “It’s a party.” 

Most of Eponine’s clothes are black but she has some color that Cosette is quick to root out. “Where’s that green dress you wore for the holiday party?” Cosette says, tossing a red shirt onto Eponine’s bed. 

“It suffered a Grantaire-related accident,” Eponine says. 

She lets Cosette pick her out an outfit, a flowy blue shirt that Jehan had given her and her nicest pair of jeans. It’s not too bad, if not quite what Eponine would normally wear. She draws the line at Cosette’s attempts to coax her hair into some sort of style. 

“It’s our friends,” Eponine says, removing Cosette’s hands from her hair. “I don’t really care what I look like.” 

“You are happy we’re having a party, aren’t you?” Cosette asks. She doesn’t take her hands from Eponine’s, just leaves their fingers loosely entwined. 

“Whatever,” Eponine says. 

Cosette knows her well enough to smile at that. She squeezes their hands together, palm to palm. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Sure,” Eponine says. “Now get out of my room so I can change.”

Quick as lightning, Cosette kisses Eponine’s cheek, leaving behind an impression of flowery perfume and soft lips, before she darts out of the room.

Eponine takes several deep breaths, curling her toes in her soft rug, and then begins to undress. 

\--

The party is in full swing by the time that Bahorel and Feuilly show up. There’s been a consensus that the heavy drinking won’t start until after Gavroche leaves but the Amis don’t need to drink to have a good time. There’s music, some electro-swing, mixed in with the top hits, as Courf and Marius argue for control over the speakers. There’s food, courtesy of Marius. There’s also a shit ton of people. Most of them are dancing, with some conversations happening in the corners. Out on the balcony, he can see the tell-tale glow of cigarettes. 

“We have too many friends,” Feuilly says, looking around at the almost twenty people squeezed into the living room of the apartment. 

Bahorel slings an arm over his shoulder. “It’s a party,” he says, leaning down to speak in Feuilly’s ear. “Try and enjoy yourself.” 

Feuilly shrugs off Bahorel’s arm as casually as possible and heads towards Gavroche. To his surprise, Bahorel follows. 

“Hey. How are things, Gav?” 

At fourteen, Gavroche is not showing much promise of height but he’s got a clever, adult gleam in his eye that makes Feuilly pity his foster parents. 

“It’s going okay,” Gavroche says, toasting him with his drink. Feuilly hopes that they managed to keep the liquor away from him but isn’t too optimistic. 

“This is my roommate Bahorel. Bahorel, Gavroche.”

“Is roommate just a discreet way of saying that you’re boyfriends?” Gavroche asks, offering a handshake to Bahorel. “It’s okay. I’m old enough to know about the gays.”

Bahorel looks startled and then he laughs, a big, booming sound. 

“That’s good,” he tells Gavroche, slapping a hand on Gavroche’s shoulder, “since you’re surrounded by a bunch of them.”

He doesn’t deny that they’re boyfriends. It doesn’t mean anything, but he doesn’t deny it. 

“Yeah, I’d noticed,” Gavroche says, rolling his eyes towards his sister, who is dancing with a beautiful woman that Feuilly doesn’t recognize.

“Who is that?” Feuilly says, raising his eyebrows, impressed. She’s leading Eponine in a very credible tango. 

“Chetta,” Gavroche says, pleased to know something that Feuilly doesn’t. 

“Lucky Joly and Lesgle,” Bahorel says, appreciatively.

“She’s cool,” Gavroche says, words of high praise from a fourteen year-old. 

“What’re you drinking?” Bahorel says, turning back to Gavroche. 

“Orange juice,” Gavroche says, angelically. 

“Bull. Where can I grab some?”

“The fridge, I guess,” Gavroche says, eyes wide. 

“You shit,” Bahorel says cheerfully. “I’ll find the good stuff myself, then. I’ll grab you a beer?”

His hand settles on Feuilly’s neck, large and warm. Bahorel’s a hugger, sure, but he isn’t usually one for casual touching. 

“Uh, yeah,” Feuilly says, doing his best not to tense up like a skittish animal. “I could use a beer.”

“Cool.” Just for a second Bahorel’s hand squeezes, and then he’s gone.

Gavroche’s innocent gaze melts away to reveal a shit-eating grin. 

“Fuck off,” Feuilly says. 

“Well, what do we have here?” Eponine has appeared and she leans on his shoulder. She’s flushed from dancing. She narrows her eyes at Gavroche but she’s smiling.

“I’m behaving myself,” Gavroche swears, but Feuilly notices that the drink has somehow vanished from his hand. 

“Sure,” Eponine says. “You have half an hour before Mrs. Lambert comes to get you. You better not be drunk when she gets here, Gav.”

“I’m as sober as a judge.”

“As a future lawyer, I can confirm that that isn’t really saying anything,” Bahorel has returned. He hands Feuilly a beer. It’s ice cold. 

“Thanks.”

Bahorel moves closer to avoid a particularly enthusiastic dance move of Bossuet’s and he doesn’t move away. And suddenly Feuilly’s flanked. He takes a swig of his beer, hoping any redness will be blamed on the crowds. 

“How’s the party going?” he asks Eponine. 

“It’s whatever,” she says, but she’s smiling. 

At the same time Gavroche is asking Bahorel, voice heavy with disapproval “You’re going to be a lawyer?” 

“Yeah, well,” Bahorel says, “I’m not exactly proud of it.”

“Someone needs to get all these losers out of jail,” Eponine says, to Gavroche. 

“Yeah, if he’s not in there with us,” Feuilly says.

Bahorel jostles him with his elbow. Feuilly jostles back because he can’t let that shit stand.

“I’m not dealing with this,” Eponine says to the two of them, but she’s still smiling. “I’m going to dance.”

“Perfect,” Cosette says, having overheard. She grabs Eponine, whose eyes go comically wide. She twirls Eponine, no mean feat considering Eponine has to bend down to make it under Cosette’s arm. 

“Dancing appears to be the order of the day,” Bahorel says, looking at Feuilly. He waggles his eyebrows, which looks fucking ridiculous. Feuilly can’t believe he’s in love with such a loser. 

“I’m going to need a few more beers for that,” Feuilly says, not joking in the slightest.

Bahorel laughs at him anyways. “I’m going to dance,” he says. “Come find me when you’ve had those drinks.”

Sometimes Bahorel gets this look in his eye, electric and wild. It’s a dangerous fucking look. Feuilly can’t stop looking at him as Bahorel downs the remainder of his drink and goes and grabs Joly, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“You’ve got no game, man” Gavroche tells Feuilly, shaking his head. 

\--

Eponine is having more fun than she can remember having in a long time. Gavroche had gotten picked up by his foster mother and Grantaire had been taken under Musichetta’s capable wing for the evening, which means she is free from responsibility, free to dance, to drink as much as she wants, to be hugged by people who are happy for her. 

“I’m so glad you’re having fun,” Marius tells her. He’s had too much to drink and leans in too close to tell her this. He smells wonderful. She’s too sober to bury her nose in his shoulder but drunk enough that she wants to. 

“I am,” she tells him, pushing him away, but only a distance that she can handle. “Thank you for all this.”

Real life wouldn’t always be like this, of course, but it feels like the start of something better. She had moved into her old place and drank half a bottle of wine all alone. Here she’s surrounded by people who love her, who are throwing a party to celebrate her crashing their happy ending like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. 

Cosette appears again. She’s been fluttering back to Eponine’s side all evening, darting away to dance with someone or to contribute to a conversation before darting back, eyes bright, hands brushing back Eponine’s hair or settling on Eponine’s wrist, like she has to touch Eponine to assure herself that everything’s fine. 

Marius lights up like it’s been hours since he’s seen her. He throws an arm around Cosette’s shoulders and pulls her to his side. He startles Eponine by doing the same to her. 

“I am,” he announces, probably louder than he means to, “the luckiest boy in the entire world.”

An answering cheer rises up in the room, many of the Amis toasting him with their drinks. 

“God bless you, Pontmercy, you precious angel,” Courfeyrac shouts back. Eponine is pretty sure he’s taking a picture, maybe even a video. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Eponine says, wanting to hide her face but torn because the only place to do so would be Marius’ shoulder. 

Cosette looks across at Eponine, eyes glowing with laughter. 

“I hate you,” Eponine mouths.

Cosette smiles like she knows what Eponine really means. She reaches across Marius and takes Eponine’s hand. 

“ _We’re_ the luckiest people in the world,” she says, quietly, just for Marius and Eponine.

Marius makes an objectively horrible noise at that, a cross between a coo and a squeal, and pulls Eponine and Cosette in tight into an incredibly awkward three-way hug. Eponine’s face is squished into his chest and Cosette’s elbow is digging into her ribs.

“I love you both so much,” Marius says. Cosette’s laughter is muffled but Eponine can feel her shoulders shake. 

“Someone’s been hitting the whiskey too hard,” Eponine says, to cover the sudden pounding of her heart that she’s sure that both of them must be able to feel. She pulls away. 

“Vodka, actually,” Marius says, with a sunny smile. He allows her to escape but Cosette’s still holding her hand, so she can’t go too far. “But I love you even when I’m sober.” 

He looks devastating, sincere and lovely, red-faced and bright-eyed.

“I’m going to go,” Eponine says, before realizing that there is no longer anywhere for her to go. “I mean, I’m going to go for a smoke. I’ll be back.”

She runs away before either of them can react to the jumble of words. It’s cold outside. She thinks for a second that she’s the only one on the balcony but then she sees Bahorel perched on the railing. 

“You’re too big for that shit,” she says, exactly like she would to Gavroche. 

He sticks his tongue out at her exactly like Gavroche would. 

“Want one?” she says, fishing out her pack. It’s been getting a workout lately. She’s going to have to cut back, though. Cosette doesn’t like smoking. 

“Sure,” Bahorel says, hopping down. He offers a lighter in exchange for the cigarette. 

They stand in silence for a moment, exhaling cancerous clouds. 

“Where’s Feuilly?” she says, because it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen him in a while. 

“Why would I know?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, because you came here together.”

“Well, the carpool was convenient.”

Ugh, men. “I thought you two were finally done fighting over bullshit” 

He levels her with a dark look. “What do you know about that?” 

“More than I want to,” she says. “Mostly I know that it’s bullshit.”

“Feuilly’s been complaining.” He sounds tired instead of angry, all of the sudden. 

“Nah,” she says, taking pity. “He’s been worrying, which is objectively more annoying.” 

“Worrying about what?”

“Your friendship, I guess,” she says, because she can’t exactly say, he’s worried that you’re going to finally notice the massive boner he has for you. 

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bahorel says, shaking his head. 

“Then it sounds like you’re a good pair,” Eponine says. 

She doesn’t know Bahorel, not really, but she’s heard a lot about him for the last couple months and she’s pretty confident in her assessment. Besides, Gavroche had liked him, which probably meant that he wasn’t the kind of guy that she had to walk on eggshells with.

“Fuck you,” he says, smiling. 

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of smiling back. She stubs out her cigarette and motions for him to do the same. “Come on. Time to go sort our shit out.”

“What shit do you have?”

“Stay in your own lane, pal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, bumping her shoulder with something that feels suspiciously like affection. 

\--

Feuilly is a coward because he only has two drinks and doesn’t dance with anyone. He plays a round of cards with Grantaire, Joly, and Musichetta, who cleans them all out. He talks with Enjolras for a brief but pleasant period. He helps Marius take some food out of the oven. He even plays a few terrifying rounds of Fuck, Marry, Kill with Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre.

And all the while, he’s aware of Bahorel dancing, Bahorel laughing. 

Then he looks up and Bahorel’s gone. It takes a minute of searching to realize where he must be, and sure enough he’s out on the balcony, smoking. He’s not alone. 

“It’s nice that they’re getting along,” Cosette says, next to him. She hasn’t talked to him all night, he realizes. 

“I don’t know if smoking together counts as getting along,” Feuilly says, warily. 

“That’s not her murder smile, he’s probably fine.”

Feuilly snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s true.”

He turns to face Cosette fully. She hasn’t been drinking much either, not to her boyfriend’s level of drunkenly announcing his feelings, anyway. Her gaze is still clear and it’s focused on him. 

“I’m glad she’s moving in with you,” he says, thinking of how happy they had all looked, squished together in what had to be the worst hug he’s ever seen. 

Cosette smiles and it’s radiant. “Me too.”

“What are you two talking about?” Eponine and Bahorel have apparently left the balcony. Feuilly can smell the cold night air and cigarettes.

“You, of course,” Cosette says, turning her smile to Eponine. 

Eponine looks at Feuilly. He shrugs.

“Well that’s terrifying,” Eponine deadpans. “I’m going to go start up a game of poker. You want to come?”

“I’m good,” Feuilly says. 

Cosette follows her, which probably means that Eponine will have a hard time convincing anyone else to join the game. Between the two of them, no one else will stand a chance. 

Feuilly’s about to say as much to Bahorel but Bahorel speaks first. “Hey, man. I was thinking about heading out, if you’re ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly says, surprised. Bahorel isn’t one to ditch parties early. “Sure thing. Let me just, uh, say goodbye to everyone.”

They have to fight off a few people (well, only a drunk Marius and Courfeyrac) to be allowed to leave but they make it out of the apartment and onto the street. Bahorel loves the streets at night, even during the winter, and sometimes goes out at 2am, just to be alone. Feuilly never sleeps well when he does. 

“That was a good ass party,” Bahorel says. 

“Sure,” Feuilly says, stretching. “It’s good to get some air, though.”

“Fuck yeah it is,” Bahorel says, jumping onto a low ledge. He’s only a hair taller than Feuilly normally but now he towers over him. Feuilly wants to wrestle him down to his own level but he resists the urge. He is feeling too—well, too something to touch Bahorel right now. 

“Let’s go to the river,” Bahorel says. 

The dangerous look is back. 

“It’s so fucking far away,” Feuilly whines, looking away. 

“The night’s still young.” Bahorel hops down in front of Feuilly. “Come on, man. I don’t feel like going to bed.”

Feuilly doesn’t either, not really. 

“All right,” he says, like he’s just going along with Bahorel’s bullshit. 

Bahorel grins and slings an arm around his shoulder. Feuilly lets it happen. Maybe there’s enough room in the outdoors to accommodate all of his feelings. 

They walk the entire way to the river like that, even though it’d be easier not to. It feels the way it’s always been but also new. Maybe it was going to be like this from now on and maybe that was going to be okay. 

They sit on the embankment of the river. The water smells but they’re alone and the reflection of the moonlight on the water is beautiful. 

“We should have gotten food,” Bahorel says, leaning back. “I could murder a gyro right now.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” Feuilly says, groaning. “We have to get some on the way back.” 

“Not yet, though,” Bahorel says, kicking his heels against the cement. 

“Yeah, not yet.” 

Feuilly isn’t sure how long they sit there in silence but it’s long enough that his heart slows to a steady thump. He looks at Bahorel and he thinks, fuck it. Here is his best friend. Bahorel has held his head while he’s vomited, he’s done his laundry for him when he’s been too busy, they’ve argued over everything under the sun. 

“Hey, Rel.”

“Yeah.” 

He’s not looking, which is helps make it possible for Feuilly to say, “I’m gay.”

Bahorel’s head jerks around comically fast. The motion almost sends him toppling into the river. “Fuck,” he says, catching himself.

“Yeah. That wasn’t the reaction that I was going for,” Feuilly says, surprised by the urge to laugh. 

“Fuck off,” Bahorel says, still staring at Feuilly. “Would it have killed you to have warn a guy?”

“I really don’t know how I could’ve,” Feuilly says, looking at the sky, smiling and then laughing, just a little. 

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“Hey, man.”

Feuilly looks at Bahorel and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. “Yeah?”

“You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. I didn’t know.”

“No one did. Well, Eponine.”

“You told her and not me?” Bahorel sputters. 

Feuilly rolls his eyes, blushing. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean to.”

Bahorel doesn’t look pleased but then his eyes widen. “And Courf, knows, doesn’t he?”

“Er, sort of,” Feuilly says, clearing his throat. “Why do you ask?”

“He said something that—” Bahorel goes momentarily rigid and then looks at Feuilly, mouth open. “You didn’t fuck Courf, did you? Please tell me you didn’t fuck Courf.”

“No!”

Bahorel narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“We messed around a bit,” Feuilly admits, “but it was New Year’s and both of us were stupid drunk. I honestly didn’t think he remembered.”

“Jesus,” Bahorel says. He’s frowning, now. It’s beginning to hit him, Feuilly thinks, a pit opening in his stomach. He’s beginning to realize just what a big fucking thing Feuilly’s been keeping from him all this time. 

“So that’s what all—” Bahorel gestures to himself and then Feuilly—”this has been about, then?”

Feuilly shakily exhales. “It’s just, man, it seemed so easy for you. Like you woke up one morning and thought, hey, I might like dick and that was it. You told everyone we fucking know.” 

“Dude, you know that everyone would be totally supportive if—”

“That’s not the point,” Feuilly snaps. “It’s not that easy for me!”

Bahorel looks like he might snap back and part of Feuilly wants him to, wants to fight it out. It would be better than bursting into fucking tears on the side of the Seine, like some kind of overdramatic heroine. But then Bahorel pulls him into a hug, awkward, their bodies a little too far away to make it comfortable. He pulls Feuilly’s head down to his shoulder and Feuilly lets him. 

“Yeah, man, I know. I’m sorry.” The words are soft, mumbled into his hair. 

“Fuck you,” Feuilly says, his choked voice a dead giveaway. It’s okay, Bahorel won’t tell anybody. He’s an asshole, but he’s Feuilly’s asshole. 

“Fuck you, too,” Bahorel says, softly. And they sit like that for a long time. 

\--

The party winds down after Bahorel and Feuilly leave, as though they signaled the end of the night. Person after person comes by and bids farewell to all three of them, as though they are equal hosts, as though Eponine isn’t some kind of live-in third wheel. She’s drunk at this point but so’s everyone else so it doesn’t really matter that she can’t quite stop looking at Cosette’s neck or Marius forearms or the freckles on his nose or the tiny mole on Cosette’s left thigh, just visible through the tights. No one’s sober enough to pay her any mind, least of all Marius, and Cosette’s sharp eyes are fixed outward as she herds their drunk friends out onto the street and into taxis. 

She pays for her staring when Marius manages to catch her unawares, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin on her head. She should pinch him, kick his shin, something, to prove that she doesn’t want this. She leans back against him, instead. He sighs and rubs his cheek against her hair. 

Courfeyrac, the last to leave, makes a squeaking noise from the doorway and starts to reach for his phone. Eponine glares at him. He reconsiders. 

“I’ll get you to like me one of these days,” he says with a bright smile. 

Out of respect for his friendship with Marius, Eponine does not voice her first thoughts on that subject. “I still wouldn’t let you photograph me,” she says, carefully not looking at Cosette.

“Elusive,” Courfeyrac says, tapping his nose like they have some sort of conspiracy. 

She rolls her eyes at him. 

“Go away,” Cosette tells Courfeyrac, with too much affection for Eponine’s taste, “and go to sleep.”

“Cruel heart,” Courfeyrac tells her, before smacking a kiss on her cheek. He runs over and quickly does the same to Marius. He isn’t such an idiot as to try with Eponine but he does smile at her. “Goodnight, my other cruel heart.”

“Goodbye,” Eponine says pointedly.

“I don’t know why you don’t like him,” Marius mutters sleepily, as the door shuts behind Courfeyrac. “He’s wonderful.”

“Sure,” Eponine says, rolling her eyes at Cosette. Cosette is leaning against the closed door, smiling at them. 

“Bedtime,” Cosette says. “It wouldn’t be fair to Eponine if she had to prop you up all night.”

Marius heaves a dramatic sigh that makes Cosette giggle and Eponine’s mouth twitch.

“Fine,” he says and he unwraps himself from Eponine, but not before grabbing her hand.

“Marius,” she says, as he walks them to the master bedroom. “I’m going to need that back.”

She can feel Cosette, half a step behind her. She feels a childish urge to reach back and link their hands, too, forming a chain like they’re schoolchildren. Instead she tugs, trying to free her hand from Marius’ grasp. 

“Sleep with us,” Marius says, sleepily, not relinquishing her hand as he opens the door to the room. “It’s cold.”

Eponine hears Cosette huff out a laugh behind her and she turns and looks over her shoulder at her. Cosette’s face, as it so often is, is inscrutable. 

“There’s plenty of room,” she says. “And I promise we’ll keep our hands to ourselves.”

Eponine is probably already flushed from all the drinking but she feels her cheeks heat up. “That’s a lie,” she says, to cover it. “Marius is an octopus.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Marius says, finally letting go of Eponine’s hand so that he can take off his jeans. 

“But very true,” Cosette says, laughing. 

Eponine is too tired, too drunk, too heartsick to look away as he does so. There’s nothing sexual about the way he collapses back into the bed, crawling his way under the covers but it’s intimate, which is worse.

“Pants off. This is a pants free bed,” Cosette commands, pulling off her dress. 

Eponine looks away but not before she can notice that Cosette’s panties have blue flowers on them. 

“I’m too drunk for this,” she mutters to herself, as she hops on one leg, taking her pants off. “This is a bad idea.”

“You’re mumbling,” Cosette says. 

Eponine says nothing, just gets into the bed like it’s a normal thing to do. 

Marius has planted himself right in the middle, so Eponine doesn’t have to go through the embarrassing motions of choosing which person to sleep next to. Cosette, now wearing an enormous t-shirt, gets in on his other side, curling into him. 

It’s so, so awkward, but Eponine’s eyes are heavy, and it is warm under the blankets, and it smells nice. She’s asleep before she can think much of anything else. 

Eponine wakes up in the morning with her head unceremoniously in Marius armpit. She wasn’t so drunk last night that she doesn’t remember how she ended up there but she isn’t quite equipped to deal with it sober, head pounding, the Marius and Cosette smells having become a MariusandCosette smell. 

She sits up, feeling off-balance in more ways than one. She looks down at Marius, whose mouth is open and who has a massive fluff of bedhead. She shifts her gaze to Cosette. A pair of bright, dark eyes look back at her. 

“Morning,” Eponine whispers, because she doesn’t know what that look means and she wants it gone. 

The look remains. “Stay,” Cosette says, not a hint of a smile. 

Eponine swallows, looks away and huffs out a laugh. “I have to take a piss. Is that allowed?”

“Come back, afterwards.”

“What? Come on—”

“Promise.”

“Fine, you weirdo,” Eponine whispers, swinging her legs to the ground. She tries not to feel self-conscious about the fact she’s not wearing pants. “I’ll be right back.”

She really does need to piss but she takes a few extra minutes in the bathroom, leaning against the cool tile. She feels like garbage, mouth fuzzy and ashy. She wants to shower. She wants to run away. She wants to go back to the bed and pretend that she belongs there. She brushes her teeth, to stall. 

And then takes a deep breath and goes back to Marius and Cosette’s room. She opens the door. 

Cosette’s fallen back asleep, head on Marius’ shoulder, arm around his waist. In his sleep, Marius’ head has turned to her. 

Eponine steps out of the room and quietly shuts the door behind her. 

\--

_Drinking sesh with Ponine IMMEDIATELY. B there or b square.  
By there, I mean my humble abode. _

“Why does no one we know text like a normal person?” Feuilly says, staring at his phone. 

Bahorel looks over his shoulder. Feuilly fights the urge to hide his phone. He may not be keeping as many secrets from Bahorel anymore but he’s still keeping one big one. 

“He’s a real weirdo, that kid,” Bahorel says, sounding kind of impressed. “You gonna go?”

They hadn’t left the apartment all day. Bahorel had made pancakes and then they had sat in front of the TV, cracking jokes, chilling out. Feuilly is still wearing the sweats he had slept in. 

But he did owe Grantaire. 

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “Come with?”

“I wasn’t invited,” Bahorel says, pulling away. “But thanks.”

His face is carefully neutral. It’s a face that Feuilly has only started to see in the last couple of months and he fucking hates it.

“Come on, it’s not like you’ve never crashed a hangout before. And you like R, admit it.”

“Alas, but I am mortally afraid of the wrath of Ms. Threnadier.”

It’s a credible impression of Grantaire and not even all that mean. Feuilly punches Bahorel in the shoulder anyway.

“Get over it,” he says. “And put on some pants. We’re going out.”

Bahorel grins, sudden and bright. “Whatever. I guess I’ll go if you’re gonna be that way about it. I’ll bring some beer. There’s no telling what shit Grantaire will have.”

Neither of them have ever been to Grantaire’s place. He used to live with Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet but moved out—“once they started macking everywhere”—and now he lives in a studio of his own. It’s not too far so they walk, heads tucked into their scarves. 

Eponine answers the door. She’s wearing a giant sweater that Feuilly is fairly certain belongs to Grantaire and holding a very full glass of wine. 

Eponine eyes both the beer and the man carrying it with disdain. “You might as well come in,” she grouses. 

Bahorel looks pleased at the reception so Feuilly guesses that’s just how they’re going to be. 

Grantaire is sitting on an extremely large couch that Feuilly thinks must double as his bed. There certainly isn’t a sign of one anywhere. The apartment is cleaner than he would have expected but just as full of junk, books stacked in piles, camera equipment in every spare corner, the only other real piece of furniture is an extremely large armoire. All the walls are covered in photos, some which are definitely Grantaire’s work and some which Feuilly thinks aren’t. 

“If I knew you were bringing him, I would have suggested we go to yours,” Eponine says, gesturing at Bahorel. “R’s place isn’t exactly designed for hosting.”

“You won’t mind after you’ve had some drinks,” Grantaire assures them. “It’s good of you to join us, my friend.”

Bahorel grins. “Good of you to have me.”

Eponine gestures Feuilly to the kitchen, though they still have to whisper, since the kitchen’s less than ten feet from the sofa. 

“What the fuck?”

“Sorry. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Whatever. I thought you would.”

“We talked.”

“Oh?”

“Not that talk. The other one. The point is that we’re cool now and he likes both of you.”

“Well, I don’t know if I like him,” Eponine says, making her voice loud enough so that Bahorel can hear. 

“I’ll work on that,” Bahorel says, smiling very dangerously. 

“Hmph,” she says, pointedly turning back to Feuilly. “You want a glass of port?”

“Of course you have port,” Bahorel says to Grantaire, delighted. 

“I’ll stick with whatever else there is,” Feuilly says. “No offense, R.”

Grantaire waves his hand. He’s wearing a blanket around his shoulders like a cape and is fiddling with something on his laptop. A wail of sound fills the room, causing Eponine to spill a bit of Feuilly’s wine, as she’s caught mid-pour.

“Fuck, sorry!” Grantaire smashes a key and the noise stops. 

“The fuck is that?” Bahorel asks, looking over Grantaire’s shoulder without any ceremony. 

“My latest masterpiece,” Grantaire says, hunching into his blanket. “By that I mean, the tasteless derivative garbage I am producing in an attempt to feel artistically fulfilled.”

“I don’t know man,” Bahorel says. “I don’t know shit about art but it looks cool to me. I mean, fucked up as shit, but cool.”

Grantaire looks pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bahorel says. He means it, Feuilly can tell. 

“Heads up,” Eponine calls out.

Bahorel looks up just in time to catch the bottle opener that she’s lobbed at him. 

“For your shitty beer,” she says. It’s a clear gesture of approval. 

Bahorel salutes her. 

Eventually Grantaire puts away his project, but not before everyone’s offered their opinions, every single one of them ill-informed. It’s definitely fucked up, the imagery almost violent, the mood tense and unhappy. But it is also weirdly fascinating to look at. 

“I’m done with this shit,” Grantaire says after a time, violently exiting out of the window. He then puts on the Bachelor. 

“The duality of man,” Bahorel says, in awe. 

“Shut up,” Eponine says, elbowing him. “Jeanette’s talking.”

Bahorel looks gleefully from her to Feuilly. _Do you see this shit?_

Feuilly shrugs. 

“He should obviously go with Camille,” Bahorel says, after two episodes and a few glasses of port. “They’re compatible as shit. She gets him, you know.”

“Camille?” Grantaire yelps. “Madness! Obviously, it’s Melanie. You can’t argue with chemistry.”

“Just because she’s your type,” Eponine says, scoffing. 

“Oh, and your love of Jeanette has nothing to do with her being yours? All dark hair and short twirly dresses?” Grantaire says, slyly. He’s forgotten about Bahorel’s presence, maybe, but Jeanette does bear a resemblance to Cosette. 

Eponine and Feuilly both quickly look at Bahorel. To Bahorel’s credit, he does try to make it look like he hadn’t caught on, but, less to his credit, he’s kind of shit at it. 

Eponine goes a dark red and throws a nearby book at Grantaire’s head. He dodges easily, though he looks confused. “What—oh.” He smiles guiltily at Bahorel.

“I hate you,” Eponine says, burying her face in the couch cushion. Grantaire regards her for a second and then decisively pauses the show. 

From his position on the floor, Bahorel looks amused but also thoughtful. He’s not much of an introspective guy, more inclined to action than thought, but he’s not stupid either. 

“Are you living in sexy polyamorous sin with Cosette and Pontmercy?” he asks, after a moment. 

Eponine gives a shriek into the pillow. Feuilly winces. Grantaire raises his eyebrows and sets the laptop on the floor. He carefully pats Eponine on the head. She doesn’t protest but she doesn’t raise her head, either. 

“No?” Bahorel mouths at Feuilly. 

Feuilly waggles his hand. “Sort of,” he mouths back. 

“Aspirational,” Grantaire mouths at the both of them. Or at least Feuilly thinks that’s what he’s trying to say. It’s difficult to be sure. 

“I am going to get up,” Eponine says, voice muffled. “And we are going to watch the rest of the episode and we are going to pretend this moment never happened.”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, reaching for his laptop. 

“Yeah,” Feuilly says. “Whatever you want.”

“Hell no,” Bahorel says, mulishly. “I want deets.” 

“Deets?” Eponine raises her head up, looking incredulous. 

“Yeah,” Bahorel says, clearly having no idea how close to death he’s skating. Eponine talks about her feelings if, and when, she wants to. Grantaire quietly sets the laptop down again, a little further away from the couch this time, as though preparing for trouble. 

She looks at Feuilly. He shrugs. Not my responsibility. 

“I am not talking about this with you,” she says, to Bahorel. 

He pouts. It’s incredibly undignified. “We talked about my shit.”

“I already knew about your shit!” 

“What shit?” Feuilly says, suddenly very interested. 

“Nothing,” Bahorel says, quickly. 

Grantaire has discreetly taken out his phone and begun filming the scene before him. It might be snapchat, it might be for a video project. It’s difficult to tell with him. 

“You talk?”

“Only about you,” Eponine says, to Feuilly. 

Feuilly thinks about Eponine looking between him and Cosette, _that’s terrifying_. Yeah, it is. 

“Oh fuck you,” Bahorel says. “I won’t tell anyone. I’m just curious.”

“It’s not happy funtime gossip,” Eponine snarls. “I’m in love with people who are breaking my fucking heart.” 

“Join the club, sister,” Grantaire says, saluting her with his phone. Feuilly has no idea what that’s going to look like in the video. 

“Seriously, though,” Bahorel says. 

Eponine raises her eyebrows, sneers. “Oh, are you in love, too?” She’s obviously forgotten that the question has the potential to hurt Feuilly in her efforts to attack Bahorel. 

“No, fuck off,” Bahorel says. “I just mean I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

He’s lying. Feuilly can tell he’s lying. 

Eponine doesn’t know him well enough. “Not that bad! You asshole!”

Bahorel winces. “Jesus.”

“You’re really fucking this up,” Grantaire says, to Bahorel, but not without sympathy. He’s put the camera away. “Give the man some breathing room, Ep. He’s not used to dealing with you and we don’t want him dropping dead of fear.”

“Excuse you?” Bahorel says, extremely offended. 

“Oh fuck you, R,” Eponine says, sulkily going to pour another glass of wine. “This is all your fault anyways.”

“Which I freely admit,” he says, easily. It’s not an apology, Feuilly notes. “Let’s just continue our pleasant evening of watching other people’s romantic drama, hm?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, still sulking. “But not a word about Cosette or Marius. From any of you.”

“Whatever,” Bahorel says. Feuilly holds up his hands. Grantaire presses play on the episode. 

Bahorel was fucking _lying_. 

\--

It’s late when Eponine gets back to her new apartment. She’s tired and a little too drunk to deal with the fact that Cosette is sleeping on the couch. She was waiting for her to come back, Eponine knows. She had texted to let them know where she was. It isn’t her fault that Cosette is worried about nothing. She doesn’t feel guilty about it. She doesn’t. 

She’s very quiet in getting a glass from the kitchen and filling it with water and maybe it’s because she’s so focused on being quiet that she doesn’t notice Marius until she turns around. 

She lets out a little yelp that she quickly stifles, shooting a look at Cosette, who appears not to have been disturbed. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” she says. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to wake Cosette.”

“Same,” she says, gesturing to her room. 

He follows, casting an adoring glance at Cosette as they pass. 

“Did you have a good time?” he asks, as she puts the glass of water down on her nightstand and starts rummaging for pajamas. 

It’s Marius so he doesn’t have any ulterior motive in asking the question. Besides, he doesn’t know that Cosette had asked her to stay that morning and that instead she had left the apartment before either of them could wake up. 

“I did,” she says, although it had certainly been more complicated than that. 

“Cosette thinks you and Feuilly might be dating,” Marius says, leaning against the doorframe. He looks earnest.

“We’re not,” Eponine says. She’s not surprised that Cosette thought so. She is surprised that Marius brought it up. 

“Do you want to be?”

Eponine laughs a little. Marius isn’t stupid, as much as they tease him, but he doesn’t always have the best handle on what other people are feeling.

“No, Marius,” she says. “I don’t want to be dating Feuilly.”

“Good,” he says.

She drops the clothes she’s holding onto the bed so that she can use her whole body to fix him with a look. “Good?”

He doesn’t flush or stammer. “Good,” he repeats, with a firm nod. “Goodnight, Ep.”

And then he closes the door to her room. 

“What the fuck?” Eponine asks the empty air. 

\--

Feuilly comes home from work, tired as shit, to find Bahorel sitting on their kitchen counter eating leftover ramen. 

“Get your ass off the counter,” Feuilly says, as he walks by. 

“There’s another thing of ramen left,” Bahorel reminds him, not moving an inch.

“It’s unsanitary,” Feuilly says, taking the container out of the fridge.

“I refuse to listen to the man who is about the eat cold fucking ramen,” Bahorel says, watching Feuilly take out a fork and pop open the container. 

Feuilly rolls his eyes and very deliberately takes a sip of cold broth. It always disgusts the shit out of Bahorel. 

“You are disgusting and I’m ashamed to know you, goddamn.” 

Feuilly shrugs, trying not to smile, and starts heading to his room. 

“Hey, man,” Bahorel calls out. 

Feuilly turns, mouth full of noodle. 

“Courf and I are going out tonight,” Bahorel says, and he sounds almost nervous. Fair enough, as Feuilly’s been biting his head off about Courfeyrac for the last few weeks. “So I’ll be out late.”

Feuilly thinks of how tired he feels, how most the clothes he wears aren’t fit to be seen at a club, about how much he can’t dance. 

“Would it be weird if I came along?” Feuilly asks, casual. 

Bahorel’s eyes widen. “Uh, yeah. If you want?”

“Cool,” Feuilly says. “I’m going to take a nap before we go. Give me a half hour heads up, will you?”

“Can do,” Bahorel says, saluting, still looking totally baffled. 

\-- 

Eponine manages to avoid the apartment for most of the next day, as well. She has work and then she goes to see her advisor to talk about the upcoming semester. She walks around the park until she stops being able to feel her fingers. She visits Grantaire at his job for a while. But it’s getting late and she doesn’t really have a plan for the evening. She calls Feuilly. 

“Want to hang tonight?”

Eponine hears Feuilly’s answer in the silence before he actually says, “Actually, I can’t tonight. Sorry.” 

“Why?” she says, sitting up, more curious about Feuilly’s tone than annoyed about his turning her down. 

“I’m going out.”

“Oh?” she prompts. 

“With Courf and Bahorel.”

“Ha,” she says. “That’ll be a trip. You did come out then?”

“To Rel, but I guess Courf will figure it out once we’re out.”

“Don’t let him,” Eponine suggests. “He’ll be all enthusiastic about it.”

There’s a silence. “Hm.”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “He’ll probably make you a custom cake.”

“That is, uh, that is a valid point. Maybe I will wear a plaid shirt.”

“Oh? And what were you planning instead, hot stuff?”

Feuilly laughs. “You know, I have no fucking idea.”

“Send pics,” she says, cheerfully. “I could use a laugh.”

“What are you going to do?”

She blows out a noisy exhale. “I don’t know. Grantaire’s working all night so I’ll probably just hole up in my room, avoiding the Dream Team.”

“What’s going on with you and them?”

“Things are weird and I don’t know if it’s just me,” she admits.

“Weird how?”

“I—intense. I don’t know.” 

“Are they—”

“I don’t know,” she says, quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of the sentence. “But it can’t be that. Why would they wait until I moved in? That just makes everything a hundred percent weirder, right? I’m just imagining things, probably.” 

“You can come out with us tonight,” Feuilly sounds concerned. Grantaire had, too. 

“I’m fine,” she says, meaning, _I would rather die_. “It’s not like I can avoid the place forever.” 

“You can always crash with us if you need to.”

“It’s a better offer than Grantaire’s place,” she muses. “But you know Bahorel and I would end up engaging in a fight to death, right?” 

“Yeah, well, I like your odds in that fight,” he says, laughing softly. 

She’s glad no one can see her smiling. “Obviously,” she says. “But to avoid murdering your best friend, I will go talk to my best friends.”

“Good luck,” Feuilly says. 

“You, too,” Eponine says feelingly.

\--

Feuilly doesn’t end up wearing a flannel but only because Bahorel makes an entirely over-the-top fuss about it when Feuilly comes out in it. 

“You’re fucking killing me,” Bahorel says. “Go put on something less like to make me vomit.”

Bahorel is dressed exactly like he always is but how he always dresses doesn’t look out of place at a gay club. Courf, when he rolls up to the apartment with a handle of vodka, is wearing the sparkliest shirt that Feuilly has ever seen and electric blue eyeliner. 

“I won’t insult your frankly awful jeans,” Courf tells Feuilly, hugging him, “because I am so excited that you’re coming out with us.”

“I’m keeping the jeans,” Feuilly says, “but I’ll let you put some eyeliner on me.” 

“It’ll look perfect with your hair!” Courfeyrac drags him to the bathroom immediately, shoving the bottle of vodka into Bahorel’s hands. 

“Mix us some drinks, maestro, and make them very strong.” 

Bahorel does make some very strong screwdrivers and he makes fun of both Feuilly and Courfeyrac, saying they look like aliens, as though his black eyeliner is infinitely cooler. 

“Gorgeous aliens,” Courfeyrac says, and puts on MIKA. 

Feuilly is pretty sure Courfeyrac _is_ an alien. 

They pre-game hard. Courfeyrac tries to convince them to play a party game and when they won’t, tries to make up a game that he thinks that they’ll want to play. They start out pretty stupid and get stupider as they break out the shots. Courf’s worst attempt is his suggestion that they race to build toothpick sculptures like some terrible team building exercise. 

“I’m a mechanic,” Feuilly says, laughing. “Not an engineer.” 

“But that means you’re good with your hands,” Courfeyrac says, with a wink, dodging Bahorel’s attempt to chuff him on the head. 

Feuilly wishes that Courfeyrac didn’t remember the New Year’s incident. He suspects that it has doomed him to a lifetime of winking. Then again, it’s Courfeyrac. He might have been doomed anyway. 

They roll out later than any of them had intended, squished into the backseat of a cab because none of them could agree on who would be shotgun. Courfeyrac gets them into the club right away though, chatting happily with the bouncer, a tall, middle-aged guy who seems amused by him. 

“You good?” Bahorel says, in Feuilly’s ear as they step into the noise and the heat of the club. The night well underway. 

Feuilly just nods. 

Feuilly likes clubs just fine but he never really goes out, preferring to catch up on sleep on his nights off. And he’s never been to a gay club. It’s an inane observation but there are so many dudes. And they’re dancing together and making out in corners. 

“I need a drink,” he calls out. 

“Brilliant idea,” Courfeyrac says. 

They push their way to the bar. Courfeyrac buys them all a shot and also one for a lonely looking guy at the end of the bar. For all the mockery, Courfeyrac isn’t actually much of a player. He’s just friendly. 

“He’s probably in love with you now,” Bahorel tells Courfeyrac, scrunching up his face. He hates tequila. 

“Then he has excellent taste,” Courfeyrac says with dignity. 

“Come on,” Bahorel says, but mostly to Feuilly. “Let’s dance. You owe me one.”

It’s not the dangerous look but it is still _a_ dangerous look. Thank fucking god for tequila, Feuilly thinks. 

The club isn’t packed but it’s crowded enough near the DJ, where Courfeyrac drags them that Feuilly is pressed against people on every side. It’s warm and it smells good in the way that so many human bodies together can smell good. Feuilly remembers the smell from a large protest last fall. Though, no one had tried to grab his ass at the protest. 

Bahorel easily pushes between Feuilly and the offender. Feuilly hadn’t minded, really, but he didn’t mind Bahorel at his back either. 

“Apparently not everyone hates the jeans,” Feuilly says, to Courfeyrac who looks questioningly at them. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkle with laughter and he reaches out a hand. 

“Dance with me,” he tells Feuilly. 

Courfeyrac is a shameless dancer, limbs askew, whole body rolling. Feuilly’s had enough to drink that he thinks, okay, and joins in. He hears Bahorel laugh beside him, though he doesn’t look at him directly. It’s a nice laugh, a happy one. Courf’s hands feel good on his waist and Feuilly’s is happy, too. 

They dance for the next couple of hours and Feuilly loses himself in it, the feeling that he can dance however he wants because everyone here knows who he is and doesn’t give a shit. And there’s Bahorel there, keeping the creeps at bay, and maybe some of the nice boys, too, if Courf’s complaints are anything to go by. He dances with Courf and with Feuilly, though he doesn’t touch Feuilly, not once. 

They call Courfeyrac a cab and they have difficulty getting him into it as he doesn’t want to stop hugging them, kissing them both all over the face. Bahorel eventually just picks him up and deposits him into the car, wishing the exasperated cab driver good luck. 

Bahorel and Feuilly get their own cab and the minute they get in, Feuilly feels exhausted. He leans against the car window. They’re halfway to the apartment when Feuilly feels Bahorel’s feet in their heavy boots land in his lap. 

“What the fuck?” Feuilly mutters, shoving at him half-heartedly. 

“Just getting comfortable,” Bahorel says, his eyes are closed. Feuilly turns his head to hide his smile anyway. 

They stumble up the stairs to the apartment, occasionally stumbling into one another, shoving each other away but never hard and never too far. Feuilly liked the dancing and the noise but he likes this too, coming into the quiet apartment, still a little drunk, tired down to his bones, his bed waiting for him. 

“Water,” he says, satisfied. “And then bed.”

“Pour me some, too,” Bahorel says. “Shit. I didn’t mean to drink so much.”

“Courf is a bad influence,” Feuilly says.

“Oh, so it was Courf who suggested that last shot,” Bahorel says. “For some reason I thought it was you.”

“Well, I was under a bad influence,” Feuilly says, handing Bahorel his water. 

Bahorel takes it, rolling his eyes. They sit in the quiet, drinking one glass of water and then another. Feuilly can already feel the start of a hangover but he’s happy there, in the silent kitchen with his best friend. 

He sets his glass in the sink. “I’m beat,” he says, clapping Bahorel on the shoulder. 

“Wait,” Bahorel says, when Feuilly already has a hand on his door. 

Feuilly looks at him, blinking bearily. 

“Why’d you really come out tonight?” Bahorel asks. He sounds tired. 

“I had fun,” Feuilly says and it’s true. 

“It’s not your scene.”

“Nah,” Feuilly says, which is also true. “Still had fun though.” 

“You know you don’t have anything to prove to me, man. Or to anyone else.”

Feuilly yawns, leans his weight on his doorknob. “Well, yeah. I know. But I wanted to see if you were in love with Courf and this seemed the best way to do that.” 

Bahorel laughs incredulously. He clearly thinks Feuilly’s fucking with him, which is perfectly fine with Feuilly. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re not, though.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Bahorel says, his eyes look a little wild as he realizes that Feuilly isn’t joking. “Jesus. You could have just asked.”

“Nah,” Feuilly says, opening his door. “Had to see for myself.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“Night,” Feuilly says, and closes the door. 

He hears Bahorel swearing the hallway.

\--

Eponine buys a bottle of wine and some bread, some half formed idea of peace offerings. Cosette and Marius are sitting on the couch, watching a movie when she comes in. They look up and she’s hurt them. She can tell by the way Cosette looks a little harder than usual and Marius a little softer.

“Hey,” she says, apologetic. 

Cosette gets up and Eponine lets her unwrap the scarf from around her neck without saying anything. She lets her undo the buttons of her coat as well. 

“I brought wine,” she says. “And bread.”

Cosette doesn’t look entirely ready to forgive her yet, but the corners of her eyes crinkle. 

“I’ll make something,” Marius says, getting up. As he passes Eponine, he rests his hand on her shoulder for a moment, grounding. 

“We’ll help,” Cosette says, pulling Eponine forward by just two fingers of her right hand. 

“I’ll help. Cosette will supervise,” Eponine says, because she doesn’t want this night to end in actual flames. 

With Eponine’s help, Marius scrounges together something delicious. They let Cosette chop some vegetables but they’re both adamant about keeping her away from the stove. Ursula watches them from the floor, hoping vainly that they’ll drop something for her. It’s a bit late for dinner when they all sit at the dining table and they all immediately dig in, quiet as they eat. It’s not a large table and Cosette’s leg keeps bumping against hers and Marius almost knocks over his glass of wine twice, when reaching for things. 

“I wish it was summer,” Cosette says, after a while. “Then we could all sit out on the balcony and tonight would be perfect.”

“Sounds romantic,” Eponine says, because she is tired of being a coward all the time. 

Marius drops his fork unto his plate and the noise is horrendous. Cosette gently puts hers down, mouth twitching a bit.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Marius says, to Cosette, flushing. 

“I would never,” Cosette says, hand over her heart.

“Bullshit,” Eponine says. 

Cosette picks up her glass of wine and toasts Eponine with it. “Are we talking about this now?”

There is an it to talk about. Eponine can’t fucking believe it. She looks away from Cosette’s inscrutable ever-laughing eyes and looks at Marius. He looks vulnerable in a way that makes her want to run away or maybe kiss him. He’s brick red. 

“I guess we are,” Eponine says. 

Cosette looks across the table at Marius. He shrugs helplessly. Cosette sighs and pulls out her phone, after a moment she passes it to Eponine. 

It’s a note, a numbered list followed by a list of dates. 

The numbers appear to be rules. 1. No flirting in the house. 2. No expensive gifts 3. Demonstrate that we care about our friendship. Next to the dates are things like: buy flowers, try one on one dates, kissing. 

The first date is three months from now. 

Eponine puts the phone down. “What—”

“We wanted you to feel established,” Cosette says, ruefully. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you, make you feel like this was a condition of you living here.” 

“Why ask me to move in, then?” Eponine feels like she’s being pulled out of her body. She’s not quite sure how she’s managing to speak. 

“Your last place was terrible,” Marius bursts out. “People got stabbed there, Ep. Mrs. Lambert wouldn’t even late Gavroche visit you.”

“It smelled,” Cosette agrees. 

“Well, yeah, it did,” Eponine admits. “But I had other options.”

“You never took any of them,” Marius says, hands nearly knocking over his wine glass again. 

Eponine would move it out of his way but she doesn’t trust her hands right now. She’s not entirely sure that she’s not in some sort of dream. 

“And we were pretty sure you’d say yes to us,” Cosette says. And for the first time she looks nervous. Still mischievous, but also nervous. 

“I—you’ve both known this whole time?”

“I didn’t,” Marius says. He leans towards Eponine, hair falling over his forehead. “I didn’t, Ep, I promise. You know I can be stupid about stuff like this.” 

“You did, though?” Eponine says, looking towards Cosette. 

Cosette hesitates. “I knew you were interested. I didn’t— it took a while to see to the...possibilities of the situation.” 

“It took me longer but I was raised by conservatives,” Marius says, somewhat defensively. 

“I was raised by nuns,” Cosette counters. It’s clearly a conversation that they’ve had before and that’s just too much for Eponine. 

Eponine lowers her head to the table because she needs something solid to lean on right now. The silence above her head is very heavy. She wonders what kind of faces Cosette and Marius are making at each other right now. Three months. Jesus. 

“You’ve broken your rules,” she says, without lifting her head, thinking about hands in her hair, on her wrist, steady watchful eyes, kisses to her hair and cheeks. 

“We’ve shown you that we value your friendship, haven’t we?” Marius sounds sad. 

Eponine makes a noise to show that she hears this. 

“Was it just for me?” she says, still into the wood.

“Pardon?” Cosette says. She heard perfectly well, Eponine’s sure. She’s just trying to make Eponine’s life difficult. 

Eponine doesn’t raise her head but she does turn it, so that she can glare at Cosette. 

“Was the three months just for me?”

“I don’t—” Marius says. 

“No,” Cosette says. “It wasn’t.”

Cosette is the bravest person Eponine knows and she looks terrified. Eponine is strangely comforted by that. She raises herself up onto folded arms and regards Cosette carefully. 

“Marius was so sure,” Cosette says, swallowing before offering a shaky smile. “He’s so sure about everything all the time.”

And he was, too. He had left his grandfather’s house without a penny. He had moved in with Courfeyrac without knowing him. He had fallen in love with Cosette at first sight. It was—something, that he was apparently sure about Eponine, too. 

“I didn’t—” Marius starts, but Cosette interrupts him with a smile, reaching her hand across the table to take his. 

“I like it,” she says, before looking back at Eponine, “but I needed some more time to figure out whether or not I could share. Not three months, maybe. But some time.”

Eponine doesn’t allow herself time to think. She just says, “And can you? Share?”

“Definitely,” Cosette says, nodding. She’s not smiling anymore. She looks serious, like she’s going into battle. 

Eponine exhales and leans back in her seat. It’s strange feeling the weight of their eyes on her and knowing for sure it’s desire instead of second guessing every interaction between the three of them. 

“We met five years ago,” Eponine says. “Nearly. That’s a long time to want someone. I—don’t know. I don’t know if I can do this.”

Marius takes her hand in his. “We have time.” 

Cosette reaches across the table and takes her other hand. “You can do anything you want. I know you.” 

“We look like fucking idiots,” Eponine complains. She feels nakedly vulnerable with both her hands captured. She also feels embarrassed, turned on, terrified, and deeply in love, not necessarily in that order. 

Marius rolls his eyes. Cosette laughs. They don’t let go.

“We’re doing this, then?” Eponine says. 

“We’re going to date,” Marius says, looking thrilled by his own boldness. 

Cosette smiles at him, a hint of admonishment in it. “We’re going to take it slow. As slow as you need.”

“Okay,” Eponine says, looking at the best people she knows. Her hands are warm. 

\--

It takes Bahorel a full two hours after Feuilly gets up to ask. Feuilly’s kind of impressed. 

“So why the fuck did you think I’m in love with Courf?” Bahorel says. 

They’ve gone out for breakfast, which is really more like lunch given the hour, because neither of them could muster up the motivation to cook. It’s not one of their usual haunts but the coffee is good and the pastries fresh. Bahorel and Feuilly don’t talk much, still waking up, which is maybe why it takes Bahorel so long to ask the question. 

“Can we not do this in the fucking cafe?” Feuilly says, in a pained voice. 

“Do what in the cafe?” 

“Have this conversation,” Feuilly says. “Also shout.”

“I’m not shouting!” He is most certainly shouting but Bahorel doesn’t have much of an indoor voice so Feuilly’s used to the dirty looks they always get when out places. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Feuilly says, rolling his eyes and gesturing for the check. 

“I don’t see why it’s such a complicated question,” Bahorel says as they spill onto the street. He’s dressed for combat, lots of floral patterns, a waistcoat, his thickest boots. 

“It’s not a complicated question,” Feuilly says. “I thought you might be in love with Courf because you’re in love with somebody and you’ve been hanging out with him a lot recently.”

“What makes you think I’m in love?” Bahorel says, flushing darkly. 

“You’re a shit liar, for starters,” Feuilly says, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

It takes Bahorel a minute to realize what Feuilly’s talking about. “Grantaire,” Bahorel growls. 

“It was actually Eponine,” Feuilly reminds him. 

“It’s still Grantaire’s fault. It’s like a cloud of romantic disaster follows him.”

“You should tell him that,” Feuilly suggests. “I think he’ll like the imagery.”

Bahorel makes an incredibly frustrated noise. To his surprise, Feuilly’s having fun. 

“So you just thought that you’d investigate your stupid theory instead of, oh, I don’t know, thinking for two seconds or just asking me.”

“It’s not that unbelievable that you’d be in love with Courf,” Feuilly says, reasonably. “It does happen.”

Bahorel gives him a dirty look. “Do you have any other brilliant theories about who I might be in love with?”

“Nah,” Feuilly says. He’s beyond theories at this point. 

“Just nah?” Bahorel sounds dumbfounded. Feuilly really is enjoying himself. 

“Nah,” Feuilly repeats. He can’t stop his grin. 

“Well what the fuck are you laughing at?”

“You, you big dumbass. You could have just said something.”

Bahorel looks sort of like he’s been smacked in the head with a bottle. Feuilly knows the expression because he’s actually seen Bahorel be smacked in the head with a bottle.

“You—What the fuck is happening here?”

“Look it was me or Courf, right? Those were really the only two options that made sense. So if it’s not Courf, it’s me, isn’t it?”

“I—”

For a heart-stopping moment, Feuilly thinks, oh, fuck, I was wrong about this one, I really fucked up, but then Bahorel clears his throat. 

“Yeah, fuck me but yeah. But don’t get cocky or anything! It’s probably just a long-term exposure thing. Like stockholm syndrome.”

“Long term—you ass! Can I hold your hand?” Feuilly says. It isn’t practical because it’s still cold out but Bahorel looks hurt and tucked into himself and it’s stupid, so stupid, that they haven’t ever held hands before, not even when drunk.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What the fuck would you want to hold my hand for?”

“Does it matter? Can I hold your fucking hand or not?”

“Fine!” Bahorel shouts, like it’s an insult. 

Feuilly grabs his hand before Bahorel can overthink it. 

Bahorel stills instantly and looks down like he’s never seen his hand before. He looks back up at Feuilly, startled. 

“Is this cool?” Feuilly says.

“Is this cool?” Bahorel says, and he sounds breathless. In spite of his surprise, he’s gripping Feuilly’s hand tight. 

“Uh, yeah, consent is good,” Feuilly says, clearing his throat. He feels stupidly electric even though only their palms are touching. They’re not even standing that close. 

“Yeah, it is,” Bahorel says, with a huff of laughter, and then he takes a step closer, pulling Feuilly forward by their joined hands until there’s only a few inches of crackling air between them. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly says, voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle of the word. 

Bahorel takes his free hand and puts it on Feuilly’s face, his thumb just brushing the corner of Feuilly’s mouth. They stare at each other. 

Feuilly smiles, ruefully. “Are you actually going to kiss me or what?”

“Yeah, ” Bahorel says. “It’s just, shit, man, I want it to be good.”

Feuilly is torn between melting and rolling his eyes. He splits the difference and leans up to close the distance between them. 

It’s completely weird because it’s Bahorel. He knows his smell, his presence is totally familiar, and he’s been pressed against him for hug after hug. But it’s different because he’s allowed to touch the back of Bahorel’s neck and thread his fingers through his hair and then there are Bahorel’s lips, soft from obsessive chapstick use, and more tentative than Feuilly would have ever expected. It’s chaste and short and Feuilly has to pull back almost immediately, heart pounding against his ribs. 

“Sorry,” he says into Bahorel’s neck. “It’s just—”

“Really fucking overwhelming,” Bahorel says, his voice a rumble in Feuilly’s ear. Feuilly pulls his hand free and cautiously puts it on Bahorel’s waist. 

“Yeah,” he says, pulling back to look at Bahorel’s face. 

“So I’m taking this shit to mean that you, uh, also,” Bahorel is looking into the distance. His ears are bright red. 

“Yeah, I love you, you dumbass,” Feuilly says, pulling at Bahorel’s chin so that they’re looking at each other and kisses Bahorel again. 

It’s less weird the second time and Feuilly can settle into the moment, into the feeling of Bahorel’s tongue running along Feuilly’s lower lip. Feuilly’s mouth falls open in welcome and suddenly, they’re clutching each other and making out like it’s the middle of the night in a club instead of in the bright morning light in the street. Bahorel’s hands slide into his jacket and under his shirt, large and warm. Feuilly doesn’t want to stop but he also needs to breathe. He pulls back. 

“So I’m pretty fucking queer,” Bahorel says, he’s panting a little and smiling and he looks gorgeous. He keeps his hands exactly where they are. “For the record.” 

Feuilly rolls his eyes but he smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Me too.”

“Hell yeah. We’re here and we’re queer,” Bahorel shouts out, tilting his head back. 

“Just tell the whole fucking world, why don’t you?” Feuilly says, wincing at the noise. 

Bahorel startles and moves away, which is not actually the result that Feuilly was hoping for. 

“What?” he says, wondering if it would be too desperate to grab onto Bahorel and drag him back in. How the fuck are they going to live together? Feuilly isn’t going to get a damn thing done for probably the rest of the month. Maybe the rest of his life. 

“I don’t want to force you to come out, man,” Bahorel says, awkwardly. “I know—”

“I don’t think you can call me man once your tongue has been down my throat,” Feuilly interrupts because he wants to nip that shit in the bud. 

“I can call you whatever I want,” Bahorel says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You really can’t,” Feuilly says and then quickly, before Bahorel can argue, “Look, I’m not saying I’m ready to come out at work tomorrow or anything but, you were right. Our friends won’t really give a shit and I don’t want to have to be secretive about this.” 

“Oh?” Bahorel says hopefully. 

“Yeah,” Feuilly says. “But can we not tell them just yet? I’m not ready for the Courf coming-out experience. I want some time to figure this out without streamers being involved.” 

Bahorel uncrosses his arms and nods, okay, fair. “But until then, we can make out in the streets, right?” he says, carefully.

“Maybe not,” Feuilly says, reluctantly. “Especially when we live two blocks away.”

“Genius,” Bahorel says, grabbing Feuilly’s hand. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re allowed to call me _that_ ,” Feuilly says, for the first time allowing Bahorel to drag him somewhere without putting up even a token fight. 

\--

Eponine gets dragged to the first proper Amis meeting of the semester because she’s now dating two of the members and apparently that means mandatory attendance. 

“We know your weaknesses,” Cosette had said, threateningly. Which might have been sexy, only she was talking about the fact that Eponine had ticklish feet and cried every fucking time she saw Pacific Rim. 

“You’ll have fun,” Marius had promised, in a baseless show of optimism. 

She immediately regrets her decision when Courfeyrac catches sight of them and throws himself at her in a full-bodied hug.

“Snitch,” Eponine mouths to Marius over Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

He shrugs helplessly, looking guilty as hell. 

She rolls her eyes and pats Courfeyrac on the back once and then twice, a little harder the second time. “Okay, time’s up.”

He steps back, but only a little. He’s beaming. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Oh my god,” Eponine mutters. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Why are we happy for Eponine?” Joly inquires, shattering the brief moment of fondness that Eponine had felt for Courfeyrac. 

She realizes that everyone in the room is looking at them, except for Combeferre who is not looking in a way that suggests he already knows exactly what is going on, and damn Courfeyrac, anyways. She glares at Marius, who looks distressed. Cosette’s eyes are gleaming, suggesting that she has a good lie prepared but that she’s going to let Eponine squirm a bit more before deploying it. 

Thankfully, for Eponine’s peace of mind, Feuilly and Bahorel walk into the meeting at that moment. This normally wouldn’t attract everyone’s attention, but this time Feuilly and Bahorel are holding hands, both of them blushing just a little, jaws set in preparation for the onslaught. 

“Hey assholes,” Bahorel says loudly, lifting up their joined hands. “We’re dating.” 

And the onslaught comes. 

Courfeyrac whoops with joy and goes to hug them both. Joly and Bossuet loudly start demanding details so they can settle a bet between them. Jehan offers a soft but heartfelt congratulations and a sonnet. Enjolras claps Feuilly on the shoulder and then hugs him, murmuring something that makes Feuilly’s face go soft. Grantaire salutes them with a coffee mug. Combeferre puts down his book and he smiles. 

“Did you know?” Cosette asks, coming over and leaning her head on Eponine’s shoulder. She smells exactly like herself and Eponine tilts her head to rest on Cosette’s, just for a moment. 

“Yeah,” Eponine says. Feuilly had called her from the bathroom a few weeks ago, giddy with joy and panic and she had been, too. She suspected that both of them were never going to bring up that phone call again. But it had happened. “But unlike Pontmercy, I can keep a secret.” 

“I’m sorry,” Marius says, miserably at her other side. 

She sighs and quickly reaches out to squeeze his hand before anyone can see. “It’s fine,” she says, meaning it. “I didn’t really expect you to keep a secret from Courf, anyways.”

Marius, who lacks discretion in every aspect of his life, kisses her cheek in gratitude and that’s the moment that Eponine’s eyes meet Feuilly’s from across the room. He’s bright red, not holding Bahorel’s hand anymore, but standing close enough to him that he could reach out if he wanted to. He smiles at her, embarrassed and embarrassed by how happy he is anyway. 

Eponine gives him the tiniest smile back, to say, I know, I get it, and aren’t we the luckiest people on earth?

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this one sitting around forever and thought I'd polish it up and post. Thanks for reading!


End file.
